


Of Waves and Wilds

by michael_the_angelo



Series: Waves and Wilds [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fae, Amnesia, Child Abuse, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Depression, Disownment, Dissociation, Dissociative Behavior, Drunkenness, Emotional Manipulation, Fae & Fairies, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Family Abuse, Family Issues, Family Member Death, Fights, Forced Isolation, Gen, Isolation, Kinda, M/M, Major Character Injury, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Serial Killer, Violence, Viper School (The Witcher), but only kinda but i stole them and completely disregarded any information I really know of them, fight ring, i'll add more tags as they become relevant, major character death but like it's the very last chapter, the actual fighting isn't overly explicit in the first chapter but it's definitely mentioned, we don't actually see Geralt for awhile with how I have it kinda planned out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:00:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25732498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michael_the_angelo/pseuds/michael_the_angelo
Summary: Jaskier should have probably seen it coming, yes, but he didn't. However that life doesn't matter, the mountain can go fuck itself, because Jaskier has moved on. Truly he has stop pulling that face. Living as a normal travelling bard suits him just fine, and he can absolutely stay out of the mess humans make of the world. Absolutely. Could he ensnare the public and live like a king? Yes, easily, but that's cheating and makes him no better than Valdo Marx but if there is one thing in this world that is true it is that he is leagues above Valdo fucking Marx.Jaskier gets kicked out at the mountain and decides to go back to living as a travelling bard typically would. He's determined to stay out of the whole monster hunting mess, whether it's a human monster or a swamp monster, and spread his wings. Both literally and figuratively since he doesn't need to keep such a tight grip on his glamours anymore. However, being the apparent north pole on the universe's danger magnet, that plan doesn't last as long as he hoped.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Waves and Wilds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866580
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	1. When the Wolf Howls

**Author's Note:**

> There's a little piece that's technically the prologue to this that you should probably read first! I'm pretty sure this would make sense without it but I encourage you to check it out! Hopefully, if I can figure out how to create a series and all that, it will be posted before this in the series. 
> 
> I promise nothing when it comes to updating this, it will likely never be consistent and it probably won't be overly frequent but I'll do my best!
> 
> This is unbeta'd but decently proofread, enjoy!

Jaskier can admit, privately, in his mind, to himself, that this is shit. He’s constantly covered in dirt from passing wagons on the roads, spending tenfold what his clothes actually cost him on laundresses who overcharge because washing silk is tedious. His composition book sits unused in his pack because nothings fucking happened to give him something to write about and frankly it’s a disgrace to his very soul. Gods above, half the time he doesn’t even respond to his own name because it’s been two decades since anyone’s called him Dandelion!

At least his shoes are lasting longer now.

Weeks pass by in a blur. It's not that Jaskier is mentally checked out or too drunk to remember (okay, he was but only for a week), everything is just so… monotonous. He stays in a town until his welcome is worn thin, singing the same songs over and over, then moving on to the next place large enough to house him.

Again and again and again.

And again.

So life is boring, yes. Who knew Jaskier would one day miss the smell of intestines and swamp water? He even considers going to Velen for Melitele’s sake, fucking Velen!

However, he’s comfortable. Years spent with a Man-Whom-He-Never-Thinks-About-Shush have given him the experience to play a crowd dry of their coin and ale. Sticking to main roads allows for larger towns with bigger pouches and higher end tailors. Jaskier can satisfy his indulgent tastes for rich meats and ales, floral oils and perfumes, and colorfully embroidered clothing. He has his pick of useless trinkets and fleeting bedfellows alike and plenty of town squares and taverns are happy for him and his lute to take up house. This is the lap of luxury, the greatest of dreams, for most any travelling bards. This cushy life of never being a day from the next town and never truly needing to pay for a room is the end goal for half of Oxenfurt’s student population. So yes it’s comfortable. Jaskier’s going to ignore the fact that it all makes him want to scream because there’s no one around that can tell him what to do or where to go so he might as well fulfill his childhood dreams even is it leaves him blad from ripping his own hair out. But he’s not because he’s comfortable and not about to find the closest field and shriek until he passes out from oxygen deprivation. Nope, not at all, not one bit, he’s loving life right now.

Though there are whispers of nasty business of the human kind floating around, fight rings that house more than knights wanting to bypass their code and black markets that sell more than stolen grain, that Jaskier could dive into for some excitement but he’s finally learned some self preservation and chooses to keep him mouth out of it.  
Of course he still hears the whispers, how can he not? He’s fae, a bard, and used to work as a spy, he’d hear and recognize them concussed and shit-faced. He keeps half an ear turned to them in case something particularly grizzly shows up that he might feel the need to step in for, but largely they brush past him. Jaskier may be a people pleaser and truly too feral for his own good, although he hides it well, but he has a boring life to live and it won’t do to get mixed up in the underground world of a place he doesn’t plan to spend more than a week or two in.

That, of course, gets thrown right out the window eventually.

“Heard there’s a Witcher there.” It comes from a man hidden in a corner, hunched over his ale. His build says he’s a farmer, his scars and eyes and shoddily hidden weapons say you shouldn’t get in his way. The utterance of ‘Witcher’ has Jaskier’s attention snapping to him, even as he keeps his back turned and his fingers strumming.

“Yeah, it been there for a few weeks now, hasn’t lost a fight.” This comes from who sits next to him, several teeth missing with wild eyes and shaky hands. His frame bears little threat but the fervor behind his eyes and the greedy grip on his tankard tell a different story. The words settle heavy in Jaskier’s stomach as he picks up on the vein of the conversation.

“Shit man,” the larger man drains his ale, “the Witcher out every night? I can take a few broken ribs for quick money, but I don’t have no death wish.” His companion snorts before answering.

“They bring it out every night, bastards as feral as a wolf,” he wheezes out a painful chuckle, “Don’t talk, don’t plan nothing, just growls and charges. Ripped a man’s throat clean out with it’s teeth. They been keeping the mutt muzzled since then.” The first man laughs in terror while the smaller grins with his remaining teeth, obviously enjoying the reaction.

“Ya think normal Witchers are bad, this one almost makes them look human. It’s gotta be old as hell, fucking white hair down to it’s ass. At least I think it's white, hard to tell covered in dirt and blood and shit.” By then the man looked very nauseous and Jaskier was trying valiantly not to. Thankfully his years bouncing from court to court listening for intelligence allowed Jaskier to keep his hands going as he processed the conversation. Fury wrapped its way around his heart, strangling it. Fury at the treatment of his- the Witcher, at the fact that hearing about him made Jaskier consider messing up everything he had going on the off chance he might need help.

Fuck him for that.

Fuck him for swiping Jaskier’s feet out from under him when he’d finally settled into this life.

Fuck.

Jaskier’s going to the fucking fight ring.

He had to spend the rest of the night in the darkest corners of the seediest tavern the town had to offer and flirt with people that somehow smelled worse than intestines and swamp water, but eventually Jaskier found his way into the packed dirt clearing far off in the woods. Surprisingly sturdy bleachers surround most of it, along with guards, that are likely also bandits from the look of them, and Jaskier could just barely make out old barns through the trees. Presumably that’s where all the fighters were if the sounds of swearing and whetstones on steel are to mean anything.

Jaskier’s on the outskirts of the standing crowd, situated with a clear shot to the barns on his right and a decent view of the ring. He’s dressed to blend in the best he can, a black shirt that probably belonged to Geralt at some point and his old red trousers hidden under a thick cloak. It’s not truly cold enough for the cloak but it conceals himself and his few daggers well enough to stand the sweat sliding down his back.

Soon enough a brick shithouse of a man walks into the clearing, obviously the leader by the swagger of his gait and sneer of his lips. He prefaced the first fight by the rules of the ring, no interfering or else you’re fighting a round yourself, no picking fights with others in the audience, a run down of how their betting system worked. It goes on far longer than necessary, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, before the first fight is announced. There’s nothing particularly exciting about the two underfed bandits throwing punches and Jaskier zones out, letting lackluster enthusiasm and pained grunts wash over him until the pattern of the fights changes.

The crowd quiets to a stiff hush as the leader strides back into the center of the ring. He smirks at the barely contained eagerness radiating from the audience and lets it drag on before he speaks.

“Now I know what you’ve been waiting for, why you’re here, and it isn’t to watch scrappy boys slap each other silly,” he chuckles to himself as he slinks around the ring, “You’re here for our main event, and tonight we’re going to do things a little different.

“You all waited so nicely that we’ve decided to give you a little treat. Now normally, each fighter only gets one go in the ring, but tonight? Tonight we have a little tournament to see just how far our beast will go.

“Instead of the fight being over when one of the fighters yields, another fighter will take their place and there’s no tapping out: It’s either win or hit the ground, dead or alive.” A feral grin splits the leader’s face at the zealous roar from the crowd. Lead settles in Jaskier’s stomach, dropping heavier and heavier the longer the uproar surges. Eventually the leader commands their attention again before introducing a new face. The fighter’s bald and bulky and mainly ignored by the crowd. He’s not who they’re looking for.

Another silence falls over the audience, thick with anticipation. A growl, almost a rumbling hiss, fills the air and everyone presses into the moment. A figure is drug into the ring, bound and muzzled, dirt and blood caked into their hair and skin. The stocky body looks underfed even with their thick layer of muscle as they’re suspended between the two guards. Hair does indeed hang well down to their hips, dubiously white and in need of a vat of hair oil. Long, sharp teeth flash from between straps of leather as they bear them in a nasty snarl, tension coiled in every inch of muscle. The crowd finally roars its approval when the figure is shoved to their knees across from their first opponent. Somehow, Jaskier manages to hear the leader over the cheers that make his ears ring.

“I present to you: the White Wolf!”


	2. Viper in its Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, it's all pretty typical for a fae and a witcher in a fighting ring.  
> I have no idea how actual fight rings work but this is my fic of a fantasy world so fuck it.  
> Also I listed to The Hu on repeat for this and I recommend having it on. I found them like three days ago and let me tell you Mongolian throat singing BOPS  
> Chapter Title from:  
> Envy lurks at the bottom of the human heart like a viper in its hole.  
> -Honore de Balzac  
> Once again this is not beta'ed but I did proofread it so hopefully there's not too many mistakes or anything like that! Enjoy!

The White Wolf is carefully unchained, one guard holding them while the other fits the key into their locks. That deep hiss twists through the stomping and cheering around them. The guards quickly back away, leaving them kneeling, their head hanging to the ground. Slowly, oh so slowly, their green, slitted eyes raise to stare directly at Jaskier.

Green eyes.

Hissing.

It’s not Geralt.

Had anyone been paying attention they would have seen how Jaskier’s eyes popped open nearly comically wide. But no one was, so Jaskier works his jaw unseen, his shock and distress going unnoticed.

The green eyed Witcher grins at Jaskier, seeming to enjoy his astonishment. They wink when the ringleader backs out to the edge of the space and calls the match to a start.

The stringy fighter across from them snarls and starts to circle, visibly shaking with adrenaline and fear. The Witcher, still on their knees, chuckles, rolls their neck, then shoots their hand out, grabbing an ankle and pulling their opponent easily to the dirt. The force of the attack knocks the fighter out when their head hits the packed dirt. A silence fills the air as the abrupt end to the round. The fear that fills the audience is thick enough to cut, strong enough that humans could likely smell it. The smell crawls up Jaskier’s nose, burning his nostrils as it’s joined by the smell of piss.

The Witcher smoothly rolls to their feet, a twisted smile glinting behind the leather muzzle, and quirks a brow at the quiet crowd. The leader’s face tips down into a dangerous snarl. He throws the next opponent into the ring, eyes wild with anger at the quick, precise finish to the first round. Slowly and deliberately the Witcher shows the leader their back before turning their attention to the shaking man before them. The man quickly rights himself from where he’d fallen to the ground, standing straight and trying to look intimidating despite the flutter of their hands. The Witcher rises to their full height, chin lifted proudly, and the mountain of a man shrinks back despite the fact that they still tower a foot above the Witcher.

And then the Witcher starts skipping.  
  
Fucking skipping.

Steam starts rolling out of the leader’s ears from the fire in their eyes.

And they just keep skipping around their opponent. The crowd sits back in bewilderment as the Witcher completes a circle and continues in the same pass and path. Jaskier, however, is muffling giggles because he knows the tactic.

He isn’t able to hold in the snort when the man built like a brick shit house passes out from hyperventilating in fear of a woman skipping around him in a circle.

The ringleader’s eyes snap over to him at the sound. He seems to dismiss Jaskier as a threat before sliding back to the Witcher with a nasty grin. His mistake. He enters the ring and Jaskier starts gathering power from the forest. The Witcher meets Jaskier’s eyes with a playful grin, Jaskier winks back. They both turn their attention to the leader as he pulls a blade from his hip, cocky in his showmanship. If only he knew.

The ground begins the rumble as it meets Jaskier’s call and the Witcher beckons the leader on. The third round has begun.

They circle each other, the Witcher and the leader, with matching feral smirks. Even the birds fall quiet in the wake of their coiled energy. The Witcher jerks forward in a small feint and darkly chuckles at the leader’s panicked slash. Guards come to line the ring as the Witcher taunts the leader, their hands sitting on the hilts of their weapons as the tension mounts. Jaskier’s arms start to glow under his cloak as his magic gathers under his skin. The trees and vines to his aid, quietly sneaking over to the packed, bloodstained earth, pushing up through the dirt poised to attack. Then the Witcher strikes.

They lunge, up and around, like a striking viper, and snatch the sword right out of the leaders hand before burying it to the hilt in the earth for Jaskier to secure. Wiping around faster than the human eye can track, they leap onto the leader’s back, tackling them then rolling forward to flip off, leaving the leader disoriented and bloody. They crouch down, ready to spring again.

The crowd gasps at the leader’s bloody nose and it seems to break their trance as they start cheering once more. The Witcher cocks their head with a smile at the sounds before returning their attention to the sputtering man. He shuffles back towards the edge of the ring on hands and knees, fear leaking into his eyes. Trying to yank his blade free of the ground just makes the Witcher laugh and they nearly fall on their ass when Jaskier pulls the sword completely under the ground. Calmly the Witcher rights themselves and starts skipping across the dirt again, heading directly for the leader. He scrambles to stand, managing to be upright by the time the Witcher reaches him. Just as calmly as they skipped, they punch the leader in the face and lower him to the ground by the front of his shirt when he starts to drop. Straightening back up, the Witcher dusts off their hands before snapping the leather at the back of their head with ease.

“Anyone else?” they chirp, smiling sweetly to the crowd once the muzzle was tossed to the side. One by one the guards draw their weapons, some with long swords others axes or maces, and start to advance on the Witcher. Blue eyes once again meet green and the rumbling from the ground stops. Jaskier throws off his cloak and drops most of his glamour, eyes losing white and black to become fully blue while limbs elongate to proportions that no longer equate human and the trails of light on his arms glow even brighter, before striding to stand next to the Witcher.

“Howdy dowdy Dandy,” the Witcher greets with a nudge to Jaskier’s ribs.

“Please remind me why I’m helping you again,” Jaskier asks while rolling his eyes. The Witcher laughs and throws another wink his way, taking the leader’s sword when Jaskier hands it over, having freed it from the earth under his control. They both turn their attention to the humans surrounding them as they turn to stand back to back in the center of the ring. The guards and the Witcher and fae stare at each other, guards unwilling to attack first and the Witcher and fae patient enough to wait them out.  
With a look, the guards attack at once, and the ground splits open. A feral laugh raises with the vines and roots that shoot from the ground. They wrap around wrists and ankles and throats as the Witcher cuts through their prey. Jaskier’s pupil-less eyes flick from one opponent to the next with the intent of an apex predator on the hunt, glee filling his frame as he lets go of his control. The Witcher takes care of the guards Jaskier doesn’t knock out or kill and soon their snarling rage no longer has a hunt to spend itself on. With a look passed between them, they let loose a laugh that shakes the trees down to their roots before disappearing.

The audience is left in eerie silence, the birds still too scared to even rustle a wing. They stay there for a while longer, trying to process what they just saw. The man who almost signed up to fight is the first to move. He runs to throw up behind a tree. The rest of the crowd seems to shake off the trance they were in and turn to leave. By the next morning they can’t remember where they spent the evening. They assume they drank too much and continue on with their day. By the morning after that, the earth has reclaimed the packed ring of dirt and filled it with wildflowers. The edges are lined with buttercups, creating a perfect circle. Soon the townspeople know not to go near that those flowers lest they have to fend off a viper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all thought it was Geralt didn't you  
> Originally this was supposed to be so much more feral and violent but then Jaskier started giggling and they both had to be cheeky so have this instead.  
> Next chapter the green eyed Witcher will be properly introduced! I'm planning on trying to post at least once every two weeks so see ya then!


	3. Screaming in Tune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Witcher and a Fae walk into Faerie and yell a bit whilst covered in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is much shorter than I wanted it to be but I haven't had much time/energy to write and this feels like a natural place to end it so here we are. 
> 
> Title taken from "Farewell Wanderlust" by The Amazing Devil
> 
> As usual, this is unbeta'ed but somewhat proofread, enjoy!

The two stand in the middle of a clearing ringed in buttercups, staring at each other and ignoring the blood sticking their clothes to their skin as it dries. Neither seems to want to break the increasingly awkward silence.

“Okay, fine, I’ll go first, why the FUCK were you being held captive by a fucking fight ring?”

“I will have you know,” the Witcher responds evenly, waving an accusing finger in Jaskier’s direction, “I wasn’t captive, I just didn’t leave immediately and you just happened to be here the night I was planning on leaving.”

“Oh, oh, yes, and you were just there by happenstance as well?” Jaskier’s hands plant themselves on his hips as he stares at the Witcher in front of him.

“Mayhaps!” They mirror each other, from the hands on their hips to the squint of their glare as they lapse back into a tense silence again.

“Lila, I thought you were dead!”

“That’s a surprisingly common misconception!”

“LILATHERA DE VIPER!”

“JULIAN ALFRED PANCRATZ!”

“I thought you were dead, then had to help you escape a fucking fight ring!” He throws his hands up, nearly screaming at the cosmos.

“You say that like it’s the weirdest place you’ve found me.” Lila’s deadpan tone fills with sarcasm to conceal the giggles trying to rise up.

“Oh, it’s not, but it’s the dumbest one: prisoner to a shitty fight ring.”

“Do NOT think I won’t find a corner and sit you in it.”

“I found you in a fight ring, I don’t think you can still hold on to the nanny privileges from over a hundred years ago.”

“Your parents never actually fired me, but fine, alright, detention then!”

“I don’t even teach at Oxenfurt anymore!”

“Does it look like I give a shit Mr. Dandy Doodle Dum?”

“Oh fuck you.”

“Fuck you!” Once again they fall into silence.

“You do realize my title isn’t ‘de Viper’ right? Please tell me you know that isn’t my actual title.” The question is presented with a serious tone that lasts about 2.7 seconds before a tiny snort escapes and they collapse into hysterical wheezing. They grab onto each other’s arms and shoulders to try and hold themselves up but soon end up in the grass, struggling to breathe.

They watch the sun rise after they finally manage to regulate their breathing.

“Really though, why were you in a fight rings Lila?” She heaves a sigh before answering.

“Intelligence,” Lila mumbles.

“Woman!”

“Bard!” She yells back before letting loose another sigh, “Look, I know I said I would give it up and never go back but it wasn’t as a Redanian spy, I was there for Witchers.” Jaskier’s head snaps over, his eyes wide with concern.

“The Kaedewan border and Blue mountains are only a little ways Northeast of here,” He states in a hushed voice. Solemnly, Lila nods, staring into the thick canopy above them.

“The townsfolk wanted to launch another attack on Kaer Morhen. I didn’t kick up a fuss about being called a wolf because the whispers died down when no one could win against me.”

“Shit Lila. How long were you there?”

“Ha, fuck if I know, I got like seven concussions at least.” They share a laugh over their apparently shared affinity for lacking a concept of time and getting punched in the face before allowing silence to settle once more. It’s not awkward or tense, it doesn’t sit on their chest and strangle them. It falls over them like an old blanket, familiar and safe. Jaskier takes this silence to let the information settle, let’s the true White Wolf fade from his mind again. Lila breathes in dirt unstained by blood (for the most part, they’re both still filthy) and relaxes against the lush grass, nearly falling asleep now that she doesn’t have to watch her back for knives. They stay there in the grass for a while, watching the sun move above them. As it approaches its zenith, Jaskier, as he is wont to do, breaks the silence once more, leading with a sigh as he sits up.

“Alright, I smell terrible, you’re even worse, and my lute’s still at the inn. How about you find a river and I’ll find you once I save all my belongings from being pawned off by the innkeeper.”

“By the gods, please. I haven’t bathed since before I left Kaedwen.” And just like that they set off, Lila towards the sound of water in the distance and Jaskier back across the veil to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE HAVE A NAME!! And now I can write freely instead of walking around who Lila actually is. We'll learn more about her and how she knows Jaskier and all that next time in a hopefully longer chapter!


	4. In the Brambles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's life when he's little, from his 'birth' to finding his wanderlust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little warning here: Jaskier is hurt as a kid from his wings growing in. It's not abuse or anything of that nature, however he is in pain and there's implied blood.
> 
> This was not how I planned this chapter to go at all but I think it's cute so Imma go with it. There's likely going to be one or two more chapters in this kind of flashbacky style before we return to the main timeline. 
> 
> As per usual this is unbeta'ed and somewhat proofread, enjoy!

The brambles cradle him, kindly keeping their thorns from delicate skin. He can’t see much from his little home, the vines thick to keep him safe, but next to him grows a little flower. It’s smell makes his nose wrinkle but the bright yellow makes him giggle. It likes to sway with the wind and tickle his chin. He decides he likes this flower. This flower is nice, even if it’s smell makes his nose wrinkle. Happy with his new companion, he curls up tighter in the brambles and falls asleep.  
An odd sound wakes him. It's not a bird singing, and it's not the wind, but what else could it be? He gurgles his curiosity as the twittering moves closer, but it’s interrupted but a whoosie sound. That’s not wind either, he thinks as his nose wrinkles in confusion (not because of a smell.) Then there’s even odder twittering wind sound. They aren’t the same as the Odd Sound, but they still aren’t wind or a bird. A breeze curls it’s way into his brambles, making his flower friend tickle his nose instead of his chin and he sneezes. Aha! That’s a sound he knows! The Odd Twittering being giggled! That must mean they’re a friend too! He giggles back, waving his hands at where he thinks the Odd Twittering being is. Then a crunching sound interrupts their giggling. How rude! He’s getting to know his new friend! The crunching starts twittering too, it's a higher twitter, they must not be the same type of Not Bird! The crunching stops right next to his home, and then it starts shaking! He’s not sure what’s happening but his brambles are still kind to him and keep their thorns away. Soon the vines part and he’s lifted out. Now he’s even more confused! This isn’t a bird! Or a Not Bird! (Not that he knows what a Not Bird looks like.) The Odd Twittering beings are huge too! Maybe they’re the trees the birds sit in and that’s why they twitter like a Not Bird! The Twittering Tree being that makes crunching sounds tucks him under her chin and starts to make more crunching sounds. These trees move it seems! His nose wrinkles in confusion, that’s not what trees do! But the rocking of the Twittering Tree being as they make their crunching sounds is nice and he decides he can worry about the tree moving about later, he could use a nap after all that investigation.

These Twittering beings have good food. It’s a little mushy but he’ll forgive it because it’s yummy and he only has one tooth to eat the not mushies with. They did give a dragonfly last sun though! It took him all afternoon to eat because it was very not mushy, but it was also very yummy so now he can’t wait for more tooths to eat more not mushies! And the Twittering beings have even started to talk to him! They must be figuring out what he’s saying because they told him they were giving him a dragonfly before they actually gave it to him! Jaskier’s glad to teach them how to Not Twitter! That’s new too, them calling him Jaskier. He’s not sure what it means but he likes it, even if he has a hunch it might be the name of his yellow flower friends as well, which is just silly! Why would they name him after his friends? He’s not yellow is he? Nope, he’s not yellow, he just checked. Oh well, Jaskier thinks, hopefully his flower friends don’t mind!

Jaskier’s back itches and his arms are too little to itch it! His Momma says to leave his back alone, but it itches! His Momma must not understand because she just giggles and pouts with him but doesn’t scratch his back for him! Papa chuckles from his Big Chair and doesn’t scratch his back either. Fine then! Jaskier waddles away, down to the pond. He goes through the crunchy ground, the little rocks rolling around with his stomping. He stomps down the dock as well before plopping down on the edge and swinging his feet. Jaskier sits there and pouts, determined not to move until Lilypad gives in and scratches his back for him. The lily pad Lilypad is sitting on spins around as the wind blows them around the pond. Lilypad opens her eyes and giggles when she sees Jaskier pouting on the dock. Her eyes are odd, but that’s alright, Jaskier likes the way the little slits always open real wide when she sees him. It reminds him of the cats around the barn! What’s not alright is that she’s giggling at him too! Everyone here is rude!

“Hey now Buttercup,” Lilypad calls when Jaskier gets up to leave, forgetting his demand for scratches. He huffs at her as she floats over to the dock and pulls herself up to sit next to him.

“What’s on your mind, Little Flower?” Jaskier huffs and shoves his way under her arm so she’ll snuggle him. When Jaskier doesn’t respond, she just rubs his shoulder with a gentle hand and sings a lullaby. At some point his head finds its way to her lap and he falls asleep, forgetting about his itching back for a little while.

A few suns later Jaskier misses the itching. He wakes up with the moon still high sniffling through tears. The itching hurts now and his back feels wet through the pain. He doesn't know how long he’s been awake, unable to make himself get out of bed, when Lilypad shows up. Jaskier can hear more feet coming down the hall but can’t pay attention to them when Lilypad rolls him over. Moving hurts, but Lilypad continues to nudge him gently until he’s on his stomach and crying into his pillow. She shushes him and starts singing to him as she pulls his shirt up his back. He whimpers when the fabric pulls and she runs her fingers through his hair, never letting her singing falter. More hands join hers, one grabbing his hand, which Jaskier hides his face in, and one dabbing at his back with a cool cloth. Lips gently touch his forehead and someone whispers that it’s time for him to sleep and he lets a gentle humming lull him back to sleep.

When Jaskier wakes up, the sun is high in the sky. He rubs at his bleary eyes with a big yawn as he goes to sit up. He winces, his muscles sore and back throbbing. Sniffling against his runny nose, he calls out for his momma and drags his legs up to his chest. Soon enough Momma comes in and wraps him up in her arms. She tucks his head under her chin and sings to him softly, rubbing a warm hand over his arm. His back stops throbbing and his muscles relax as her song comes to a close. Only then does he notice the new limbs on his back. Huh, he thinks, as he flutters his fluffy wings a little. He tucks them against his back again and snuggles closer to his momma. He’ll worry about the wings later.

The roof of Jaskier’s house is very high, but he’s not scared! He’s not! Momma and Papa and Lilypad are there to help him if he needs it, but he doesn’t! Jaskier’s been working hard to learn gliding and he’s ready! He might just stay back here with Lilypad while Momma gives the demonstration again though. Slowly, he approaches the edge, still clinging to Lilypad’s skirts.

“Hey there Buttercup, you’ve got this. Just like we’ve practiced alright?” Lilypad whispers this into his ear, taking his hand into hers. Taking a deep breath, Jaskier walks out to the edge and lifts his wings. His momma smiles encouragingly at him and he takes the leap.

The wind takes a few seconds to properly catch under his wings, but once it does Jaskier sails smoothly through the sky. The world looks so big from up here! His eyes go wide with wonder, taking in the view. There’s a mountain range that he can’t see from the ground, villages dotted across the land. To his right is the coastline, the scent of salt so much stronger is wind from the sea. Jaskier remembers when his parents sat him down and told him what his future holds. How he’s supposed to stay home and take over the property when his parents no longer could. That they may only be a minor court but they still need a fae to run it because the queen needs everything to run smoothly. How he’s not supposed to leave until he can properly glamour himself, and he shouldn’t go out unless he has to. That humans don’t take well to non humans in their presence. He understands why they warned him now, the world is so vast and beautiful that it’s hard to imagine staying in one place! How could you when there’s so much to explore? One day, he promises himself, he’ll explore all that he sees. He’ll climb that mountain and sink his toes into the sand. It may take years and years and years, but one day he’ll experience it all.

Begrudgingly Jaskier turns back when Momma calls him in. He’s tired and hungry and knows he’s going to be sore tomorrow but he doesn’t forget the promise he made to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you didn't pick it up, Lila is Lilypad because what very small child can say Lilathera?  
> The next chapter will hopefully be up by at least Sept. 9th, if not earlier! Until next time!


	5. Wilting Without Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Jaskier backstory, now with teenager angst!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: serial killer mentioned, there's a brief description of the deaths that's not very explicit. Starts at "Despite everything that's been done..." There are also family issues, mainly Jaskier's relationship with his father deteriorating.  
> Also, they go into a lockdown because I think I'm funny 
> 
> As usual, this is unbeta'ed but proofread enjoy!

Julian sits at the table next to his father, back stiff and dead silent. The news of yet another dead fae had reached the court of Lettenhove that morning and they could ignore it no longer. The nobles and advisors sit at two long tables running perpendicular to the high table where the viscount and his family sit, a map of Redenia spread between them marked with both the whereabouts of troops, both human and fae, and each fae death from the past several months. There’s yelling and cursing as the court tries to figure out the best course of action. Julian is supposed to be listening, learning the ways of the court as he has been since he was a small child, since he was told he’s Julian Alfred Pancratz and should never reveal his true name. Of course, he’s not listening. While he’s bound to this court, he still remembers his promise to himself, that he would go to the coast in the east and reach the summit of the mountain that sits on the horizon. But for now he’s bound to the lands of the estate and will be until he inherits the title of Viscount some several hundred years from now, and he doesn’t listen as his back begins to ache and his wings beg to feel the wind.

The attacks don’t stop and Julian barely recognizes his father anymore. He doesn’t know where the stern but kind being that raised him has gone, or why he would leave him with the man that claims the title of Viscount now. Alfred Pancratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, is harsh and unmoving and looks at Julian as if he’s responsible for everything that’s gone wrong in the past three years. Julian just wants to go outside, but all fae are to stay within the manor until the killer is found. The wards cover the entire grounds yet Julian must stay inside, both for his ‘protection’ and his cover story. The public is told that Julian has fallen ill and the noble family refuses to leave as to take care of him so they won’t question why they haven’t seen the Viscount or his family in nearly two years. Julian hasn’t seen anyone outside of the estate staff and his father’s advisors since the shut in, not even from the highest window.

Despite everything that’s been done since the attacks started, nothing has stopped them. Fae are still found dead all over Redania, the only thing linking them is their court traits missing, tails and wings and horns cut cleanly off and nowhere to be seen. All leads and nearly all their resources have been exhausted in the search so the fae of Lettenhove resign themselves to another season of isolated terror as the first chills of winter settle into the air.

The first winter locked inside has driven Lila off. Once the first warm breeze blew through her window, she was gone. Her rooms were left empty, stripped of all the knickknacks that made them hers- all except for her lute. Her lute that she would tune for Julian to play on, slowly teaching him chords as his hands grew large enough to reach across the fretboard. His parents had been confused as to why she had left one of her most prized possessions, having carved the body and dried the strings herself. Julian saw it as it was, an apology, from the new strings to the freshly oiled carving of buttercups trailing around the face of the instrument. That year only one lilypad grew in the pond. It sprouted the day after Lila’s departure and withered away within a week. As the remains of the lilypad sank to the bottom of the pond Julian gave up hope of one day seeing his Lilypad again.

Julian hates wearing white. White is the color of mourning and Julian is layered in it. Despite their efforts, the fae killer had made it into the manor. The killer had made it to his mother. So Julian wears white. He wears white and can’t help wishing his father had been found first. For nearly three years he had hidden behind walls blanketed in wards meant to keep him safe, meant to keep his mother safe, yet he’s wearing white. The staff of the manor scamper past, their whites stained and discolored because they can’t afford fresh linen, and refuse to meet his eyes as Julian walks through the halls. His shoes are still at the foot of his bed and the soles of his feet patter softly against the stone floors where the click of his boots would have echoed throughout the nearly silent manor. Without truly knowing how he got there, Julian stands in front of a door. This door leads outside, directly attached to the path that leads to the brambles he was found in and the pond that’s no longer filled with lily pads. Buttercups bloom under his feet once he leaves polished marble for friction smooth gravel, pushing up between the pebbles that make the path. As soon as his feet hit the dock he falls to his knees, tears burning as they track down his face. He sobs with his grief, doubled over with his arms wrapped around him in a mockery of his mother’s hug. The only family he had left is the viscount who seems to forget he has a son. Julian has been left alone in the world, destined to take charge of the one place he desperately wants to leave and his closest companion his lute. When the sun finally sets on the day of white, the pond and surrounding fields for as far as the eye could see are covered in buttercups. As darkness fully settles over Lettenhove, Julian pulls himself to his feet and makes his way to the brambles he came from. He curls under them and falls into a dreamless sleep, safe and protected in a way he hasn’t felt since he was pulled from them fourteen years ago, even as his grief tries to swallow him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! I'm planning on one more chapter like this, spanning leaving for Oxenfurt to meeting Geralt, however, I don't have high hopes that it will stay one chapter. We'll see what happens. 
> 
> You're comments and kuda make my day! See you Sept. 23 if not early!


	6. River Rocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes, not that it exists anyways, and Julian sees his freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentioned and implied past abuse between Julian and his father. There are more detailed warnings in the endnotes if you need more information on this. There's also a general sense of depression and dissociation from Julian and the fae serial killer is still being mentioned a good bit.
> 
> Yes this was supposed to be posted yesterday and yes I planned on this being like three or four times as long but life has dogpiled me so I figured I'd post this little piece since I only needed to edit it instead of making you guys wait who knows how long to get the full chapter. I'm going to still try to maintain updating once every two weeks at least but I can make no promises that it'll happen or that the chapters will be as long as I want/intend them to be.
> 
> ANYWHO this is unbeta'ed but proofread as usual, comments and kudos give me life and motivation, hope you enjoy!

Time flows like a river around Julian, you can hear it rushing yet it never seems to change, even as it wears down the stones in its bed. Many years, long enough for Julian to have lost track, have gone by in this fashion, the human staff that scolded him as a toddler old and dead and gone while Julian himself still looks just out of boyhood. At some point during the endless isolation the deaths of the publically prominent fae were faked so the people of Lettenhove wouldn’t become suspicious of Alfred Pancratz’s and his staffs’ long reign.

They still don’t leave the walls that have become a prison.

The deaths aren’t as alarming as they used to be. Time has numbed their effect and their numbers, the killer popping up seemingly randomly, no longer in the nearly overwhelming frequency they used to be reported in. Every so often an announcement is made to the people of Lettenhove from the large balcony facing the main gate where Julian stands tall and still and silent and tries not to sob at the feeling of a breeze against his cheek. Not even the windows have been opened since his mother’s death, since he covered the fields of Lettenhove with buttercups.

Not since his father clipped his wings with iron shears and bruised the bottoms of his feet until flowers could sprout no more because his feet couldn’t touch the ground without him blacking out. His father had placed him in the middle of his bed and tucked Julian in like back when his wings had just grown in. He told Julian it was for his own good. He’s not sure how long he stayed in his bed, unmoving. It makes no difference in this world of brick and mortar.

“Julian.” His head snaps up. It’s odd to hear his father address him directly. A frown pulls down the Viscount’s face, chiseling lines around his eyes and across his cheeks. It seems to pull harder, sit deeper in his face than usual. He runs a hand through his silvering hair and looks tired. Julian never realized how run down he looked, how old his face had become. Time was catching up with them. Julian’s freedom, what’s left of it, is trickling away like the last grains in the hourglass. Julian’s heartbeat thunders through his chest into the cavernous library, the pages eating away the beat so they don’t echo. His father sighed, running a hand through his hair again.

“We haven’t heard nor seen anything of the killer in at least ten years.” The Viscount stops there, as if the conversation is too much for him already, as if it’s too exhausting to continue. Julian doesn’t know what ten years means, not really. It’s not a concept he’s ever had any use for.

“Do you-” he has to swallow the lump lodging itself in his throat, “Do you think it’s over?” His father drops into one of the armchairs by the fireplace, slouching to the side and burying his face in his hand. Julian can’t remember the last time his father’s spine wasn’t still as a steel rod.

“I don’t know, Julian, I don’t know. But I do know this has gone on long enough.” He doesn’t move as he says this, doesn’t add any tone or inflection to the declaration. Julian shoots up, his eyes wide, terror running through him at the implication. His wings are clipped, his windows bolted, his magic tucked up away like his lute in the corner cabinet in his father’s office. He’s been stripped of all he is, there’s nothing more to take than his existence. Julian’s vision swims as he struggles to breathe, waiting for his father to state his fate.

“This has gone on long enough,” The Viscount repeats, sitting up to look Julian in the eye, “I cannot teach you everything you need to know to be a Viscount here, you leave for the Academy of Oxenfurt in three days. After you fulfill your classes you will return and take over as the Viscount de Lettenhove.” For a moment, Julian thought he had fainted from not breathing properly, that the burning in his chest was from lack of air into his lungs. He takes as deep a breath as he can, and the burning stays. Soon, he recognizes it for what it is: hope. He’s leaving. In three days' time he’ll feel the breeze on his face, be able to fill his lungs with the scent of life and clear away the dusty musk that sticks to his nose like tar.

For the first time in nearly a century, Julian smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings: Julian's father clips his wings with iron shears and bruises his feet until he can't walk because he went outside and used a lot of very visible magic. There's also emotional manipulation because his father says it's for his own good and all that while tucking him in like when he was small. To skip, stop reading at "Not since his father..." and begin again at "Julian." His head snaps up."  
> There's another instance where Alfred isn't clear on his meaning and Julian starts panicking and wondering what else can be taken from him, and while it's not explicitly stated it's mildly implied that Alfred will either hurt or kill Julian. To skip, stop reading at "I don't know, Julian, I don't know," and begin again at "This has gone on long enough," The viscount repeats."
> 
> Thanks for reading! See y'all again in (hopefully *crosses fingers*) two weeks or less!


	7. Plum Brandy Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian finally goes to Oxenfurt and makes friends while the author is getting real tired of writing Julian instead of Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Jaskier has a panic attack after overhearing a conversation, what triggers it starts at "I can't predict the side effects Alfred" while the actual attack starts at "Of course," The mage murmurs" and all of it ends at "He doesn't sleep that night." Again, it's not super detailed but it's definitely there. What follows is a lot of paranoia from Jaskier to the point of exhaustion and not eating, starting immediately after the panic attack section ends to "the sun's edge even kisses the mountains in the distance." I believe that's all the big points, but if you see something that needs to be here or tagged please let me know. Also, if you want a summary of what happens there without having to read it, reach out to me and I'll get you a summary of it as soon as I can!
> 
> Okay I mean for this to go up to Jaskier meeting Geralt but like its about 4,000 words as is so, it got split (again). Hopefully, there's only one chapter left before we pick back up at present time. After that though, I'm not sure if I want to alternate between present time and flashbacks in this work or make another work in the series to cover from meeting Geralt to after the mountain. If you guys have a preference let me and we'll see what happens!
> 
> As always, proofread but unbeta'ed, kudos and comments are lovely, enjoy!

A sleek carriage sits in the pea gravel drive, blocking the view of the fountain situated in the center of the roundabout. Julian would like to deny that he’s sweating nervously, but he’ll just have to hope nobody asks about it. Not that many would directly ask about such things as his bodily fluid secretion.

Wiping his hands across his thighs one more time, Julian steps across the threshold of the front doors, almost startling at the crunching sound under his boots. He giggles at himself for his surprise then decides to finish the ten paces to the carriage at a skip. If his father had bothered to see him off then he’d likely scold Julian for such ‘childish behavior.” Julian rolls his eyes at the thought but is thankful all the same that’s is just a few of the staff and the driver who see him. With his luggage already stowed away, Julian sinks into plush cushioning and grins at the ceiling when he feels the carriage lurch to movement. The air in the cabin is musty but fresh air drives in through the small window slats in the doors and fills Julian’s lungs with the scent of ripe apples and fallen leaves. He sneezes from the life blown in on the breeze and his face hurts from the unfamiliarity smiling.

By the time his carriage arrives in Oxenfurt Julian is as road weary as the best of them. Two wheels bust on the poorly maintained roads, forcing them to replace one then delay their arrival by three days because they had to wait for a traveller willing to trade their spare or for their messenger to return with a new one. Those same roads made a smooth ride impossible, causing it’s passengers to jump and lurch from sunup to sunset. The cobblestone streets around the academy aren’t much better than torn up dirt as Julian’s black and blue ribs helpfully inform him. When he finally manages to stumble into the main entrance of Oxenfurt, Julian wants nothing more than to collapse into a soft bed instead of running in circles around the campus to fill out paperwork in different departments. The sun’s threatening to start rising when Julian finally collapses into the bed he’ll call his own for the better part of the next year. Even though he has a class just after first light tomorrow morning that he’s not sure if he’ll be able to move for Julian goes to sleep smiling, knowing he’s finally free.

He may be free, but it’s going to kill him. Yes he can go outside, but taking bardic classes alongside his viscounty lectures is going to kill him. Julian’s furiously scribbling through his notes as the sun sinks behind the horizon and he’s already inked up his quill by the time it makes it way over the edge of the world if he went to sleep to begin with. His fingers bleed as he rebuilds lost calluses and his brain bleeds as he tries to remember all the nobles in Redania and what they did when the only difference between them is whether they were the first or the third, junior or senior.

That’s not to say he doesn’t have a life, no, he consumes his bodyweight in plum brandy and dances on the rooftops with Pricilla, his first friend and provider of said plum brandy, because what better way to practice waltzing than on shingles covered in alcohol that desperately need replacing. Essi’ll sit on the apex on the roof and yell bets on which one would stumble first while cradling her own bottle of brandy and it’s a good night. Julian even has an arch nemesis, fucking Valdo Marx, the greasy pig. Everyday when the sun is at its zenith Julian will go and play for the man he calls his mentor, only because of randomized assignment, as he belittles him for not having perfect technique as a freshman. Most of Oxenfurt falls at Marx’s feet for the technical perfection of his performances even as he shames even the slightest bit of feeling or storytelling in a piece. Julian would personally like to take a shit in his lute because that’s all that really comes out of it anyways since Valdo refuses to find a soul to put in his music.

That first year at Oxenfurt went by in a whirlwind. Julian ends the year at the top of his class and the first student to gain a mastery in four of the seven liberal arts in their first year- take that Valdo fucking Marx. He may have permanent dark circles hanging from his eyes but Pricilla and Essi practically launched themselves at him when he asked them to cover his circles with makeup. He ended up with kohl rimmed eyes and wax covered lips but it brought out his eyes so he put his steady hand to use with that little pot of kohl that Pricilla happened to forget completely by accident. Upon the last day of the semester the dean of the academy who’s name Julian doesn’t really remember if he ever learned hands him four degrees of the liberal arts and a medallion for his accomplishments, take that Valdo fucking Marx, before rushing through the crowded streets of Oxenfurt, kissing aquantances on the cheeks and dragging Pricilla into his arms to twirl in a circle then tucking Essi’s head under his arm to ruffle her hair. They cling to each other tightly until the arrival first of Essi's escort then his own separate them for the season.

The journey is just as physically terrible as before, although this time there are two spare wheels strapped to the carriage, but Julian’s heart is lighter and his soul fuller. When Julian sees his father for the first time since he left their viscounty disappointment doesn’t sit as heavily on his face, nor does his hand sit so heavily on Julian’s shoulder. It’s not approval, not even a neutral evaluation, but the tension of the failure his father carries at the sight of him has relaxed. It shouldn’t make Julian smile, but it does. He’s gotten much better at smiling over the past few months.

Despite Julian desperately wanting the season to end, this summer goes by just as the rest of them have for the past century or so, faster than a whirlwind and slower than a snail. It moves in the way time does when it’s occupants have no need for the passage of it.

Julian would throw himself out a window if they all weren’t still bolted tight.

He would have tried harder to stay at Oxenfurt for the summer if he knew he’d be back on house arrest, having to wear his doublets properly laced all the way to his chin. It’s like he never left, still expected to sit in on every boring meeting, to read only political nonsense, and to sit as straight as possible until the moment he went to bed for the night. It was exhausting, so Julian composes. Locked away in his room, he relieves himself of tightly laced fabric and writes line after line after line well into the twilight hours.

It’s enough to make him feel like a person and be able to plaster on a smile and pretend like he’s happy to be home to the staff and council members he’s paraded around.

Most don’t notice anything off about him, his attempt at being happy a vast improvement to the listlessness he used to employ, but one council member always watches Julian as if he’s a creature that’s to be figured out. He arrived about three weeks after Julian, marked a mage if not by his aesthetic appearance then by his portal, and since then Julian always feels eyes on his back, even when locked away with his quill and journal.

This mage walks with a hunch in his back and towers over most of the court with his spindly statue. His eyebrows are bushy enough to draw attention away from his shrewd eyes and the fact that Julian can’t remember his name is more likely by design than anything so innocent as coincidence, though Julian has nothing to prove such a claim with. There’s no need for a mage in a court of fae, nothing even slightly significant that he can provide that isn’t already available for as far as Julian’s seen, yet he follows after the Viscount like a shadow in his trailing robes, whispering who knows what in his ear. There’s no reason for this mage to be able to call a private council with the Viscount, yet when Julian passes his father’s study they’re in there alone discussing a plan in hushed voices.

“I couldn’t predict the side effects Alfred,” The mage insists, “there isn’t a way with these things.”

“And here I thought I had brought in the most powerful mage of all time,” The Viscount replies, the threat evident in his tone, “Yet you can’t answer this simple yes or no question.” The mage takes a sharp inhale, likely about to jump to his own defence.

“Do what you must.”

“What?” Confusion colors the mage’s voice.

“Do what you must,” The viscount repeats with a quietness that reminds Julian of the day he was told to pack for Oxenfurt.

“Alfred-”

“Do what you must, mage!” The viscount’s steel returns to him and Julian flinches against the sound of a fist hitting the desk, “I want it done in three days, or so help me I’ll use you to figure it out myself!” Everyone goes still, the mage, viscount, Julian, even the very air around them seems to seize up.

“Of course,” the mage murmurs, “I’ll start preparing immediately.” The shuffle of papers and footsteps are muffled as much as the voices through the heavy wooden doors, but it’s enough for the moment to release Julian. He runs down the hall, his heart nearly beating through his ribcage, just rounding the corner as the mage steps into the hall.

Silence returns as the mage’s footsteps fade away down the opposite end of the corridor and Julian sinks down the wall and hugs his knees to his chest. He wishes he’d heard the whole conversation and none of it at all because all he knows is that something big, something dangerous, is happening in three days with no way to determine it’s full impact and he can’t breathe. He doesn’t know how long he stays there curled tight against the wall but the sun’s zenith has come and gone before he finally climbs shakily to his feet. He doesn’t sleep that night.

The next three days leave Julian tense, his shoulder working themselves into knots and his mind keeping him on the edge of panic as it comes up with worse and worse possibilities. His hypervigilance costs him sleep as he curls up in the corner of his bed and looks for movement in the shadows. Even his composition journal suffers, sitting unopened on his nightstand. Julian considers burning it, destroying information that might be used against him at the end of the three days time. He barely even eats, his stomach rolling with anxiety worsened by the apparent disappearance of the mage when he doesn’t show up for meals. In truth the whole court is on edge as even the Viscount shows his apprehension through cracks in his cold facade.

After three days of searching shadows and looking over his shoulder heavy bags hang under Julian’s eyes and his shoulder’s droop as he hasn’t the energy to hold himself up anymore. He drags himself through his duties, missing every word said to him and mindlessly consuming what was put in front of him. During dinner he barely recognizes whether he’s eating or just chewing on air, whether there’s wine or ale in his glass. The person to his right - he should probably recognize his face shouldn’t he? - looks over him with an air of concern. The viscount doesn’t seem to notice Julian’s automated reactions, his own jittery and anxious. As soon as it’s deemed acceptable, both Julian and his father leave the table, eyes meeting in confusion at the synchronization before the exit on opposite sides of the dining hall.

The sun still sits high on the horizon when Julian crawls into bed with barely the presence of mind to take off his boots and undo the first few buttons of his doublet. He’s intent to wait out the night like the last two before it but even with his practice from Oxenfurt the exhaustion of the past three days has caught up to him and he slips into a deep sleep before the sun’s edge even kisses the mountains in the distance.

When the sun rises again Julian hides under his covers. Even through the blanket the light hurts his eyes and sets his brain throbbing. His entire body hurts, pain radiating out from a point just behind his eyes which he might have mistaken for a knife had he been unable to feel that his face is in fact intact. Throwing an arm over his eyes, Julian curls up tighter and goes back to sleep.

The next time he wakes is to a maid bustling in with a tray of food to check on him. The man’s dressed in smart blacks, clearer a higher ranking staff member, Julian discovers as his shield is pulled away from his face. He buries his head in his pillow and groans, the headache still very present. The maid snaps the curtains closed before rolling Julian onto his side and thrusting a glass of water into his face. Blearily Julian pulls himself up against the headboard and stares at the glass of water. With a huff, his hand is picked up and wrapped around the cup. Julian squints after the man who’s picking up his boots then at the glass before deciding he couldn’t possibly feel worse from having a drink, whether it was just water or something else. He didn’t throw up immediately so it’s not the worst hangover he’s ever had. He’ll call it a success.

A plate’s set on his lap, a simple fare of fresh bread and some fruits plus one fried egg and a slice of bacon. Most of the food still sits on the tray the maid is carrying away. That’s probably for the better, Julian has doubts he could keep a quiche or glazed danish down at the moment. Once the plate is cleared - very slowly with the chamber pot very close in case anything wants an encore - and the water pitcher’s empty, Julian slides back down to the pillows and pulls the blankets up to tuck under his chin, content to sleep the rest of this hangover away.

His sleep is interrupted twice more by the same man as the first time, bustling silently in with a tray of food and pitcher of water to replace what he left last time. On his second visit for lunch he persuades Julian into standing to retrieve his clothes before the wrinkles and stains make them unsaveable. Julian doesn’t remember drinking enough to acquire so many stains, but the screaming of his skull and the amount of red bleeding through the fabric assures him that yes he most definitely drank enough. It’s not the oddest bought of blackout drinking he’s experienced, he even still has his smallclothes on his body to prove it. With the third delivery of food and drink complete, he’s reminded of the council meeting at sunrise - which is a ridiculous time to make important decisions if you ask Julian, not that they have - and that he’ll want to look presentable. It’s only the second time the man’s said actual words to Julian, the first being to free his nice clothes from their use as sleep pants, but it’s followed by a side eye that’s become familiar over the course of the day. Julian just huffs and mumbles something that probably won’t make sense if he spoke it loud enough to be heard and flops back onto his bed and once more drifts to sleep.

As the next few weeks roll by, Julian forgets about the three day wait and the dangers it could’ve produced. Nothing’s out of place, the mage once more a constant shadow to his father who’s eyes dig in like daggers on Julian’s back, so Julian relaxes again, accepting the mage’s presence as permanent. There’s little more than two weeks until his departure for his second year at Oxenfurt anyways and he aches to leave. His belongings have been packed for days now, especially since he doesn’t have much that needs to go with him, so he’s taken to pacing the entryway, hoping the carriage will pull in early and he can be on his way. It seems that Julian’s redirected the river of time from a meander to a waterfall because those two weeks go crashing by. On the day of his departure, Julian’s awake before the sun and fiddles with his rings while he waits for an accepted amount of light to shine in, signaling that he can rush through the rest of his day until his transportation arrives.

Julian does get his wish though, and the carriage arrives early by several hours. The staff is spun into a whirlwind as they hurry through the rest of the preparations, loading luggage and wrapping provisions. They refuse Julian’s help and quiet his insistence that he can load his own luggage, it’s really not that much, so he paces through the gravels, occasionally splashing himself with water from the fountain to fend off the last of the summer heat as he refuses to go back inside, afraid that if he does he won’t make it back out. Soon enough the company is declared fit to travel, just in the nick of time really as Julian was contemplating stealing a horse and riding out by himself. As it is, he barely restrains himself from taking a running leap into the carriage, eager as he is to set off. Even as the adrenaline wears off he grins out the window as the scenery rolls by, taking him back to Oxenfurt, taking him back home.

The journey is smooth and swift this year, the roads better maintained and the carriage sturdier. There’s no stop for weather or change of wheel and they pull through the gates surrounding Oxenfurt a day before they’re expected. Julian launches himself from the carriage and takes off running as soon as it slows enough for him not to injure himself and heads several blocks back to where he saw Essi busking at the corner.

“Little Eye!” He cries, more out of breath than he cares to admit, as he breaks free of the crowd surrounding Essi. Immediately her lute is slung around to her back and she all but jumps into his hug. They squeeze tight enough to make ribs strain and the audience chuckles good naturedly, accustomed to the emotional reunions of bards. Leaning back Essi grabs at Julian’s face and gives a little shake as a grin threatens to split her face.

“Julian!” she yells back once she stops laughing, “You aren’t supposed to be here for a day or more yet!” Julian laughs back and pulls her back into a hug, this time lifting her up and spinning, even as she smacks his shoulders for it. The crowd goes back to their errands when they realize this won’t be a short affair, but neither bards pay them mind, they just pack up and head to the nearest tavern to celebrate.

They slide into a booth table near the back with two ales and a pitcher on it’s way, the air smokey from pipes. Essi grins at Julian while trying to wave away the smoke hanging between them.

“So Jules, what made you so eager to return to the quaint little village of Oxenfurt?” They both very carefully keep their laughter from their voices, and ignore the snorts that work their ways through the cracks.

“Why dear Essi, I want for nothing more than to see my lovely Little Eye!” He gives a little bow, hand placed over his heart.

“By the Goddess Julian, you flatter me! Do go one,” Essi teases back, shoulders tight with restrained giggles as she throws in a wink.

“My, my, Little Eye! If it is flattery you wish, then flatter I will!” Julian throws his arms wide, ale sloshing as he nearly misses smacking Essi with his tankard, “Oh how the lantern light glimmers in your honeyed strands, how they fill your eye with the hue of a blessed dawn!” He takes a pause to wipe away nonexistent tears.

“Should I be offended that the declarations of love started without me?” Interjects Pricilla, leaning against an empty chair with her own tankard. Essi, by virtue of being at the edge of the table, launches herself at Pricilla before she’s finished with her line, somehow managing to spill all three of their ales in the process. Julian frees himself from the booth just after Pricilla finishes speaking and picks the two of them up and spins them around in much the way he greeted Essi earlier. This time they both smack him and he just spins them faster. He finally sets them down when he’s too out of breath to keep going and they try to keep each other up from how hard they’re laughing. And probably dizziness too but none of them would admit it. One of the barmaids brings over another pitcher of ale, knowing how these things normally go after bussing around for a few years. Finally they settle back into the booth and replace their lost ale. By the time the tavern fills with it’s night rush, they’ve each cried three times and the barmaid’s spent the past hour wondering if she should just set an entire barrel on their table.

Eventually they make their way into the streets, Julian in Pricilla’s corset and Essi in his trousers without being quite sure how this arrangement came to be but decently sure no public nudity was involved. Not that’d it be the first time it happened. A group of professors pass by them, muttering about kids these days. Julian very maturely sticks his tongue out at them and Essi falls on her ass laughing at his antics. As Pricilla and Julian try to pull her back up, rather unsuccessfully, one of the professors breaks off from the group, likely having forgotten something in their office. Pricilla pays her no mind, but Julian squints at her through the alcohol fueled haze. Her bright green eyes flash in the dark, her long red hair twists in the light breeze, and for a split second Julian swears her pupils slit and her hair shines white, highlighting a shadow of wings behind her.

“Lilypad?” He asks the wind, and her head snaps to him, eyes wide in surprise, then the world tilts and goes white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes the mage is fucking Stregobor
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I'm not even going to say I'll see y'all in two weeks again cause it's not likely to happen at this point but we'll see, until next time!


	8. Fucking Valdo Marx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get to call Jaskier Jaskier again and he Achieves All The Things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: There's still alcohol although much less explicit than the last chapter and mainly in the form of a hangover. There's also altered memory stuff, a panic attack over the altered memory, and slight confronting family issues. To skip the panic attack you can either skip over Lila's POV entirely or stop at "Her brow unfurrows," and pick up when the POV goes back to Jaskier. I'll put a short summary of what happens during that skip window in the endnotes back it involves ~plot~
> 
> I was so excited to get to use Jaskier again but now it just feels WEIRD and tbh I kinda hate that. On a different note I've decided to keep writing more backstory stuff and alternating between pre- and post- mountain timelines so Geralt will actually show up sooner rather than later just not in the present/post-mountain timeline for a bit. AND next chapter will be back in the present with Jaskier and Lila where we left off in chapter 3!
> 
> As always, this is unbeta'ed but I gave it a proofread! Enjoy!  
> (Also, yes, the title is Fucking Valdo Marx because I couldn't think of anything else and it fits so yeah)

Groaning, Jaskier rolls to bury his face in his pillow, patting down around him in an attempt to find the covers.

“Hey, watch it,” mumbles the Decidedly-Not-A-Blanket. Essi shoves his hand away then flops on top of him before starting to snore. Jaskier almost dozes off before the click of heels accompanied by cheery whistling keeps him from sleep.

“Come on lightweights, it’s after noon,” Priscilla chirps far too smugly for how much Jaskier wants to burrow into the bed. Essi groans her agreement and weakly throws a pillow in the direction Priscilla’s voice came from.

“Here I thought I befriended people who could handle a night of fun,” Priscilla giggles, setting two glasses of water on the small bedside table.

“Why must thou mocketh us on this day?” Jaskier cries, muffled by his pillow, “Thou art cold and cruel and I bid thee to sequester thyself away from mine presence!” He throws a pointed finger to the sky for emphasis.

“I second that sentiment,” Mumbles Essi, now drooling on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“So you don’t want the fresh sweet rolls I brought you?” Jaskier’s head shoots up, smacking the back of his skull on Essi’s forehead. She yells in surprise then smacks the back of his head and Priscilla tries, and fails rather spectacularly, to stifle her giggles.

“I guess I’ll leave you be and eat them myself!” She sings over her shoulder, heading for the door.

“What- wait, no, Priscilla!” Jaskier scrambles from the bed, knocking Essi from where she was using him as a pillow. He immediately pitches to the side once upright and has to brace himself against the wall and glares when he sees Priscilla smirking from her perch on his dresser as he stumbles over and grabs the slightly greasy package of bread.

“Well, I got one of you up.” Essi’s curled back up in the middle of the mattress with the covers tucked under her chin and Priscilla looks at the lump of trobairitz with determination. After meeting Priscilla’s eye, Jaskier shoves the rest of his sweet roll in his mouth and sneaks over to the other side of the bed. With a short nod, they yank the blankets away from Essi. She screams and bolts upright, startled by the sudden cold.

“I will throw you out the window, don’t think I won’t!” She cries, grabbing the last pillow to assault Priscilla and Jaskier.

“Oh no you won’t, you love me too much!” Jaskier counters, which results in the pillow smacking him in the face.

“Besides, you’d have to get out of bed for that,” Priscilla adds, dancing out of Essi’s range. Sighing dramatically at the teasing, Essi starfishes out on the bed, arms hanging off the edges, which she should know is a terrible idea. She realizes her mistake when hands reach her sides and she starts shrieking as she’s tickled.

“Alright, fine, fine! I yield, I yield!” Essi gasps out as she twists and kicks at the onslaught. At the declaration Jaskier and Priscilla collapse next to her, the trio wheezing with laughter.

“Priscilla,” Essi questions once they nearly have their breath back, “You do realize we’re all back in bed right?”

“Oh fuck you,” Priscilla whispers into the silence that followed the question and Jaskier violently snorts at the response, setting them back into their hysterics. Eventually Jaskier rolls out of bed to finish removing the corset he was too drunk to fully unlace last night then goes back to his sweet rolls. Upon seeing Jaskier hogging the entirety of the rolls, Essi crawls over Priscilla to claim some before Jaskier eats them all. He’s done it far too many times for Essi to lay there and assume he’s going to save her some. Priscilla’s the last to leave the bed, rubbing where her ribs got in the way of Essi’s elbows and knees, and claims the rickety desk chair that Jaskier’s covered in ink.

“So Julian,” Essi asks around her sweet roll, “What epiphany have you had this time?” Jaskier’s brows draw together and he takes a confused bite of his roll.

“Every time you get drunk enough to wake up in a corset, you have some sort of revelation,” Priscilla explains, gesturing at her corset piled on the floor.

“There’s no way that’s happened enough for you two to find a pattern.” Jaskier glances between the two of them in suspicious disbelief, not trusting their smirks.

“The first time was about the tides and the big fish at the bottom of the ocean,” Essi starts.

“Then that red and gold are as much your color as blue.”

“That lacing boots are just leg corsets.”

“Oh, and before that one was what a corset actually is!”

“Once you woke up and started yelling chord progressions for your final composition piece last year.”

“It was the one good enough that Valdo stole it!”

“And then there was when-”

“Alright I get it,” Jaskier interrupts, throwing his arms wide, “I have weird epiphanies after drunkenly wearing a corset!”

“So what is it this time?” Essi asks again while trying to steal another sweet roll. Jaskier smacks her hand away then huffs and leans back against the wall to think. Priscilla raises a brow at his dramatic glaring and he flips her off. She giggles and Jaskier just pouts at the wall harder before snapping up and shouting in triumph.

“Jaskier!” He yells and seems rather proud of himself, chest puffed out and grinning cockily. Essi and Priscilla exchange a look and Jaskier deflates a little bit at having to explain.

“It’s Jaskier, not Julian. Julian is most definitely not a name for a bard,” Jaskier huffs, “It means dandelion.” He blurts it out in a rush, something telling him that the definition is as important as the actual name even as he preens again.

“I won’t lie, that’s much less exciting than leg corsets.” Essi second Priscilla’s sentiment.

“Don’t think anything will top the giant tide fish though,” Essi argues so Jaskier kicks her shin and throws a random ball of paper at Priscilla since she’s out of his bodily range.

“It does make sense though, most bards change their name before they actually go to court, don’t they Miss Callonetta?” Priscilla throws her hands up at Essi’s teasing, although her grins betrays how much ire she really holds.

“Yes I know my name is fancy, but it’s too pretentious! We can’t all be born with the perfect name for a travelling bard Essi Daven.” Priscilla huffs, crossing her arms and Jaskier just shakes his head at their antics. He hadn’t realized how much he missed their bickering, how much he missed being able to bump shoulders and sling an arm around their shoulders after the summer apart. He’d missed this and he couldn’t keep his grin away if he wanted to.

The grin dropped when he saw ‘Professor Marx, Valdo’ printed on his schedule.

“How in all the Gods is he, the very bane of my existence, a professor?” Jaskier’s exclamation caused several of the secretaries to jump, one of them spilling hot tea on her lap and setting him with a glare harsh enough to cow the very gods he yelled to. He held his hands up in a sheepish surrender before quietly leaving the building to rejoin Essi and Priscilla.

“Valdo is a professor and I desperately implore you to end my suffering now, before he has the power to fail me in Musical Composition for the Masses.” Priscilla promptly chokes and yanks the paper from Jaskier’s hands before he can even sit down on the warm stone stairs.

“Oh by the Gods, take me too, I won’t survive him that early in the morning,” She groans and slinks across Jaskier’s lap, her dramatics only missing a chalice of poisoned wine. Essi giggles and snatches the schedule from Priscilla’s outstretched hand. Her remark on having already taken the class only makes Priscilla sink heavier into Jaskier lap, in turn shoving her elbow farther into his thigh. Jaskier pats Priscilla’s head and hooks his chin over Essi’s shoulder, having not read past Valdo’s name. He lazily skims the list, noting sadly that he has an 8 am lecture every day.

“Do you know who de Viper is?” Essi questions, “That’s the only class we share but I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name?” Jaskier hums, his brows furrowing as he tries to follow the niggling in the back of his head.

“Isn’t she the one that caught Jaskier when he swooned like a maiden in a bodice-ripper?” Jaskier’s nice pats turn into a sharp smack in his affront.

“Well it was more of a frying pan to the face knockout, but I believe you’re right.” Jaskier makes an indignant squeak and flops back, immediately leaning back up regretfully when the edge of a stair digs into his back. He rubs at his bruised spine with a wince and a huff and snatches his schedule back, actually paying attention to what classes he’s supposed to take this semester. De Viper’s actually teaching two of his classes, Lute Techniques 3 and the Recording of History. Rarely do professors teach in multiple departments, but bards are the world’s oral historians so it’s not that far fetched, Jaskier muses to himself. One class may be terrible but he’s far more worried about his first impression - passing out in her arms in the middle of the street with a bottle of brandy whilst wearing a borrowed corset can’t have given her a good association with him.

The clock tower chiming pulled him from his musing, the three of them jumping. With an oh so dramatic sigh he lets Essi and Priscilla pull him to his feet and link their arms through his as they set off to make sure his belongings are properly situated since he happened to run to a tavern instead of filling out the possessions paperwork.

Over the next several days they all settled back into Oxenfurt life. Priscilla received her schedule, they held a moment of silence for the bits of their souls they were guaranteed to lose by having to call Valdo Professor Marx, and clothes eventually made their way from luggage to wardrobes. A little over a week after their arrival, classes begin again. Priscilla and Jaskier refuse to speak about Valdo’s class due to how terrible they deem it and because the pair believes any mention of it in any tone will just further inflate Valdo’s already gargantuan ego. The first two days of classes either bore Jaskier or make him want to repeatedly hit his head against a wall, often both. The political classes are as terrible as ever, even if the professors do their best to keep them engaging, and he’s just as terrible at math and science as ever. That’s not to say he’d truly bad at it, he’d just rather be writing chord progressions and poetry than filling out formulas. Astronomy at least is intriguing, if for nothing more than the stories told by constellations and that they spend much of their time laid out on comfy cushioning in the planetarium.

Jaskier’s first class on Wednesdays, however, is Lute Techniques 3 and while he won’t admit he’s nervous, Priscilla and Essi both give them their necklaces so he’ll fidget with the jewelry rather than smack them with his flailing gesticulations. He mutters a sorry when a string of pearls land in his lap. In truth, he’s more frustrated with himself than he is nervous about the professor at this point since he can’t figure out why exactly he’s so antsy over it. It’s not like he hasn’t made terrible impressions while drunk to most if not all of the professors at the academy, but for some reason the thought of being in the same room with this Professor de Viper is enough to make his voice crack and that Doesn’t Happen, alright? He doesn’t get this worked up over anything, let alone someone he doesn’t really know and, and, and-

The string snaps and pearls start pinging off the stone floor.

“Shit,” it’s very heartfelt, “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” Jaskier snatches the ends of the frayed cord, holding them up to prevent more beads from escaping. Priscilla’s skirt stops most of them from rolling away and Essi scraps her chair back to collect the rest before they get lost. Jaskier drops his head to the table, so focused on the necklace in his hands that he only misses plopping his head in his oatmeal because of Priscilla’s quick hand.

“It’s alright Jaskier,” Priscilla says when he heaves a sigh, “I can restring the necklace easily and the cord is old, it likely needed to be done anyways.” Jaskier lets his shoulders drop and rests his hands in his lap, still holding the snapped necklace. Essi gently takes the string from him when she comes back to the table and deposits it in the bowl with the rest of the beads. He hadn’t realized she left.

“Jaskier, what’s wrong?” Essi questions, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. He shakes his head, not even bothering to pick his head off the table. Priscilla and Essi share a look, he can’t see it but he can feel and he hates it just a little. He sighs again.

“I’m nervous okay?” He huffs out, crossing his arms and hunching in even more.

“Over what? Is it because the professor saw you drunk?” Priscilla’s confusion is evident in her tone. He grunts.

“It’s not like you’ve never thrown up on a professor before,” Essi picks up, “Didn’t your science professor give you extra credit for turning in a full marks paper after vomiting in his stew the night before?” He grunts again, then the words catch up with him.

“Wait, hold on I threw up on her?!” He nearly takes Priscilla out with how suddenly he snaps up.

“It was more on yourself, but her shoes were in need of a clean.” By then Jaskier realizes most of the hall turned to him at the outburst and sinks down farther in his chair.

“Jaskier, in all reality she’d probably be more concerned if you weren’t absolutely shitfaced as a traveling bard.” Essi shoves his shoulder, trying to get him out of his head. He glowers at the table harder.

“Hey, this just means you can surprise her.” His glower turns into a pout at Priscilla’s words, aware their tag teaming is working and not happy about it.

“Acting like a five year old won’t impress anyone except another five year old.” Jaskier jerks up, sputtering at the accusation.

“Ah, there he is, thank you Essi darling, I thought I was going to have to sing Fishmonger and it’s much too early for that.” Priscilla’s tone is airy and light but Jaskier can see the relief in her eyes. With a sharp, deep breath, Jaskier sits up and squares his shoulders.

“Oh here we go,” Essi rubs her hands together, gearing up for the hype session.

“You are confident,” Priscilla starts.

“I am confident!”

“You are capable,” Essi continues.

“I am capable!”

“You can play lute with the best of them!”

“I can absolutely play the lute with the best of them!”

“You are a strong, independent woman!”

“I am a strong, independent woman!”

“Ha! You owe me a bottle of brandy!”

“Ha! I owe you a- wait what?”

“Please remind me why I thought it would be hard to convince Jaskier to say he’s a strong, independent woman?” Priscilla sighs, mentally counting up how many bottles she still has.

“I have no idea but I’m going to enjoy your lapse in judgment,” Essi says with a smirk and a little eyebrow waggle. The eyebrows do it and Jaskier bursts out laughing at their antics. Feeling much better about Professor de Viper, Jaskier finally digs into his oatmeal and mentally makes a note to buy some jewelry string.

Had Jaskier realized that the Lute Techniques 3 classroom was on the other side of campus, he would have spent less time moping. Maybe. Okay, likely not, but he’d have taken his oatmeal with him rather than finish it in the breakfast hall.

The point is, when Jaskier pushes the door open, the wretched creaking hiding his slight panting, several students jump, many chord twang uncomfortably, and Professor de Viper turns to him with a brow raised.

“Julian Alfred Pancratz?”

“Just Jaskier, like a dandelion,” He huffs, still slightly out of breath, as he finds a seat. The professor nods with a hum and sits back on her stool as Jaskier takes his seat. There are several lutes setting in stands around her, some only partially constructed, and one with carvings of water lilies sitting in her lap.

“Well now that we’re all here,” Some of the students in the back snicker, “Welcome to Lute Techniques 3, I’m Lila de Viper, and please feel free to not call me professor. It makes me feel much too old and I’m still in denial about the fact that my bones say I need to either buy a horse or buy a house.” She claps her hands and launches into the expectations of the course that most students don’t listen to and doesn’t really matter that much by the end of said course. Jaskier’s apprehension towards her fades the more she speaks and disintegrates as soon as she plays. It’s a simple enough sample, something clean and neutral to show that she can in fact play the lute. However, it reminds Jaskier of his childhood, the good parts of it, like something that would have been played to him when he couldn’t sleep, of when he had no more responsibilities than to make sure he didn’t track dirt throughout the entire house and that his toys weren’t all over the den.

So despite the fact that her smile is a little too sharp sometimes and that she’ll reference something that she shouldn’t be old enough to recount first hand and that her entire presence exudes that she could slit your throat with a lute string but is too kind to truly consider it, Jaskier relaxes as the class goes on. He sinks into the atmosphere of the room that’s just cozy enough to not be claustrophobic and it’s startlingly lovely acoustics. It’s like going to a tavern in the early morning when a warm, hearty breakfast and the comradery of the hungover patrons softens the space and they can appreciate quiet, skilled music now that their brains aren’t doused in alcohol. It helps that Lila twirls around the room like she’s busking in a quaint tavern, sometimes strumming out a melody, sometimes just readjusting the way a hand sits on the fretboard to reduce the strain on the wrist. Her choice of smartly tailored pants and well-polished boots over long skirts and dainty heels doesn’t impede how she fills the room, her billowing sleeves, long hair, and joy for her craft taking up more space than swaths of fabric ever could. The class is nigh magical and everyone gets swept up in it, so drawn in that the end of the hour startles everybody. There’s a few minutes where it’s like swimming through honey, trying to come back to reality after being in a haze. Chalk sits untouched at the board, along with the textbooks stacked on the desk in the corner, and there’s no one frantically scribbling out the last of their notes. The end of class is a calm, lazy procession, with lax shoulders and idle chatter.

Jaskier chuckles to himself as he leaves the classroom, his lute slung over his back once more and his fingers pleasantly sore, and can’t help thinking about how silly his mania was now that the class is through. He shakes his head at himself and starts on to his next lesson. A dragonfly buzzes by his ear and he decides to get a snack on his way there, he’s in no rush.

Jaskier smelled so nervous when he walked into the classroom and the scent of recent panic clung to him like a cloud. He wasn’t afraid or scared, but close, and humans might have been able to hear his heart with how hard it was beating when he sat down. Once the class started Jaskier settled in, but whether that’s from his childhood lullaby or just that the attention of the room has moved off of him is impossible to say. He left in the same spirits as the rest of the class, arguably in a much better mood than he arrived, but even then there’s something off, something wrong.

After the last student filters out, Lila retreats to the tiny little office attached to the comparatively tiny little classroom with a conflicted sigh. A flick of the wrist brings water to a perfect brewing temperature and a fine strainer already filled with dried peppermint and tea leaves get fitted into the kettle to steep. Lila sinks into the worn leather of her office chair to wait for her tea and rubs her temple to fend off a growing headache. The next few minutes pass in a silence disturbed only by her breathing and slow heartbeat as she takes in the cracks in the ceiling plaster. Soon enough the steam of the tea smells right and she returns to her pondering with a warm mug held on her sternum.

Her brow unfurrows as the tea lulls Lila into a light meditation, thoughts of Jaskier calmly drifting through her mind’s eye. Questions of his nerves and reservation, of why panic had clung to him like a fresh, fire-warmed blanket. Some possible answers are dismissed, others filed away for further inspection, then followed with another question, like why was he confused by her presence a few days prior yet his eyes followed her like he was assessing a stranger all morning. Her eyes flew open as she snapped up, ignoring the cooling tea now covering her lap and dripping to the floor. Frantically, she thinks back to the night they first reunited in Oxenfurt, her eyes flying around the room unseeing. He had been confused, stunned, when he spotted her, seemingly overwhelmed by a grief that had gone unnoticed originally. And then he fainted, dropped deadly still in her arms.

His scent was wrong, not just filled with nerves and panic, it had changed, become too human and filled with ozone, the scent of a mage’s magic. It had changed when he said her name, when he dropped like a stone into Lila’s arms like a cruel mockery of when she’d carried him to bed as a toddler. The mug clatter to the floor with a hollow thud.

Lila’s breath stutters through her ribs as tears join the tea soaking her trousers. Jaskier may still exist but he’s not her buttercup, he wouldn’t know the water lilies on her lute are because of his nickname. He’s the bard Dandelion and nothing she would do could change that because while all mage magic smells like ozone, she knows the particular ozone saturating Jaskier, knows it too well, knows it to be too strong at illusions, too good at twisting the brain, for her to break it without hurting Jaskier. Either the spell breaks on its own or it never does unless the caster removes it.

Lila may be strong and skilled but she’s no match for the intricacies of Stregabor’s illusions.

When Lila finally comes back to herself, it’s to the clocktower chiming. She hastily wipes at her face and dries her pants, taking deep breaths and ignoring how they stutter and hitch until she’s back in control of herself. Thankfully her grief hadn’t turned into a disastrous whirlwind, leaving her office as chaotically organized as it was to begin with so she thanks the universe for small mercies and easily pulls out her papers for the next class. With one last fortifying inhale, Lila returns to the classroom just as the first student grinds the door open. She’ll have to fix that soon before the harsh squealing makes her ears start bleeding. With a smile fixed on her face, Lila greets the students as they trickle in, repeating names under her breath until they seem to stick. She continues on with her day and her classes, even if the only thing holding back her grief, the only thing keeping her together, is the fact that Jaskier seems happy, even though he’s not her buttercup anymore.

Over the semester Valdo’s classes get even worse and Lila’s get even better, so much so that many students restructured their schedule to take her classes over Valdo’s. They moved her to a bigger classroom, her history class ending up in one of the main lecture halls used for ceremonies and guest lectures because of how many people ended up taking it. Valdo, to say the least, is pissed for the rest of the term as he watches his popularity wither away. When he’s down to five students left in his only class he announces he’s wintering in a Cidaris court and not to expect him back then walks away with his nose in the air. The day he leaves most of Jaskier’s year gets drunk and floods the taverns with music and laughter in celeration. No matter where you are in Oxenfurt someone’s always singing Fishmonger’s Daughter, Jaskier even climbing onto the roof of a building around the town square and belting it out as loud as he could and leading the whole of the revelry in the chorus.

The end of the year brings revelry once more as Jaskier is deemed the youngest student to be awarded a mastery of the seven liberal arts in Oxenfurt history, receiving it before he’s even taken enough classes to officially graduate. He preens and puffs around and is suffocated by Essi and Priscilla’s congratulations when he makes his way off the stage.

The dean even invites him to stay the summer and guest lecture if the fancy fits him. Lila claps him on the shoulder, tells him she’ll give him some pointers if he wants, and he accepts.

Two weeks later a squatty official from Lettenhove arrives to drag him home by his ear, but Jaskier has none of it.

“I am Jaskier, the bard Dandelion, the youngest master of the seven liberal arts, not Julian Alfred fucking Pancratz, Viscount of fucking Lettenhove so hear me well. Like a dandelion I will grow anywhere and go anywhere I wish to go so you can tell my whoreson of a father that he can bring me my lute on his way down to hell. Alright?” The squatty little official swallowed audibly then waddled away, throwing himself into his carriage and riding away as quickly as he could. Tense silence holds the street corner until someone starts clapping and before he knows it the entire street is applauding him, slapping him on the shoulders and cheering him on. His knees give out as he laughs in disbelief, the relief of finally standing up to his father, even through his crony, making his knees weak as a fawn. He’s lighter on his feet and a tension he didn’t know he was carrying unwound from between his shoulder blades as he let Essi take his weight.

A letter of formal disownment arrives tied to his lute case three weeks later. Cradling the instrument to his chest is a catharsis he never knew he needed, just as much as burning the letter that night around a bonfire in a field just outside the city limits.

The following summer was hot, humid, and the best Jaskier could ever remember experiencing. It flew by and before he knew it his popularity earned him a proper teaching position and his now open schedule since the viscounty classes had been cut allowed him to take the opportunity. He officially graduated at the end of year, meaning he was a blubbering mess as he stood amongst his peers and his students. Once again he’s offered lodging and summer lecturing but the open road calls so he goes, wishing Essi, Priscilla, and his students luck before he turns to the main road out of Oxenfurt with bright eyes. He turns himself towards Dol Blathanna, wanting to see the fields of flowers and learn the truth of it’s story, with his lute on his back and a traveler’s pack slung over a shoulder. He knows he’ll be sore and covered in road dust by the end of the day and he can’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panic attack summary: It starts when Lila realizes what's wrong with Jaskier. She starts going through her questions of what's up and thinking of possible reasons for it, eventually circling back to when they first met in Oxenfurt. She realizes that his scent changed with he said her name to have a much more human quality to it and a layer of ozone from mage based magic. She then recognizes the scent to be Stregabor's magic and knows that she doesn't have the expertise to undo that powerful of an illusion without hurting Jaskier. Then she starts spiraling and rationalizes that Jaskier is still alive, but her version of him is essentially dead because the spell can only be broken by the castor. The clocktower chiming snaps her out of the attack and she calms down enough to get ready for her next class, and holds herself together by acknowledging that he's still Jaskier and she's okay as long as he's happy.
> 
> Thank you for reading! This one was fun to write, I like the interactions between Essi, Priscilla, and Jaskier. As you smart cookies have likely pick up by now, kudos and comments are wonderful and keep me motivated to continue this even when I usually don't have the time to write more than a few hundred words in a sitting! Until next time!


	9. Old Grief, New Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old grief is finally released through the telling of a tale and new hope starts to blooms in the space left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: This gets pretty heavy, it's mainly about Lila's past and the creation and destruction of the viper caravans. There's talk of death and assassinations as well as the destruction of culture. There are no 'typical' panic/anxiety attacks or explicitly stated abuse (Jaskier's father and his abusive nature is mentioned vaguely in one sentence) but it's not a happy chapter and how Lila's reacting to telling the story can be read as dissociating pretty easily.
> 
> Y'all there's so much dialogue here and I just. For someone who generally doesn't do much dialogue, this feels kinda ridiculous. That being said this is one of the chapters that makes me the most nervous along with the one that introduces several new characters that I haven't actually made yet. I hope there are no holes anywhere, I don't think there are, but I've read this chapter so many times today and don't want to wait to post because it's been, uh, a month and a half? *hides*
> 
> Anywho, as usual, this is unbeta'ed but read over, comments and kudos as motivating as hell, and I hope you enjoy!

A fire burns in the center of the camp, sizzling and popping as grease and fat drip into it from the small game on the spit above it.

“What is that actually, because I’m mostly sure it’s not a squirrel?” Lila snorts then flips the game.

“Well, it’s not, not a squirrel?” She tilts her head and squints at the animal, “It might also be a pigeon?”

“What pigeon has bright yellow fur?” Jaskier squawks indignantly at her shrug. The yellow pigeon-squirrel is pulled from the fire which pops and sparks from the disturbance. 

“Honestly, I have no idea what this is anymore but I’m mostly sure it won’t kill us which is good enough for me.” Lila squints at their meat again then shakes her head and starts breaking it down to split between the two of them. Dried rosemary gets sprinkled on at Jaskier’s insistence and a handful of nuts joins the meal. They eat in silence as the day shifts to night, neither of them entirely sure what to do now.

“Y’know, I’m not sure how long it’s been since I’ve been on this side of the veil,” Jaskier looks off into the trees, some time after their meal ended, his empty bowl still dangling from his fingers, “Sometimes, a lot of the time, I forget all this even exists.” Lila leans forward to see his face, her brows furrowed, but stays silent, listening.

“After you left, after Mom died,” He sucks in a breathe then shakily lets it out when a gentle hand squeezes his shoulder, “I couldn’t- We didn’t- He wouldn’t-” Her hand moves from his shoulder to the back of his neck and he slumps against her shoulder. Lila curls her arms around his shoulders, pressing her cheek to the crown of his head, and slowly, quietly rocks them. 

“I’m sorry I had to leave as I did,” She murmurs, barely louder than the crackling of the fire, and Jaskier just tucks his head further under her chin. 

“Why did you?” Jaskier asks, mumbling into her collarbone, “Leave, I mean?” It’s Lila’s turn to take a shaky breath.

“The deaths weren’t part of a random killing spree, they were meant as a message that I had to answer.” Jaskier shoots up to look at Lila who stares out at the fire, avoiding his gaze.

“Every single fae that was killed was a member of the caravans, part of my family,” She presses shaky hands over her eyes before continuing, “The only one who wasn’t was your mother.”

“Lila-” Jaskier starts, unsure of what to say while Lila shakes from the memories, “Lila, it’s alright.” He squeezes her shoulder as she barks out a humourless laugh, face still hidden by her hands.

“No, it’s not, we both know that, but I appreciate the sentiment,” She throws him a watery smile and looks back to the fire to gather herself, “All the stories I had told you as a boy were true, if a little exaggerated sometimes. I wasn’t supposed to tell you about Witchers, so I didn’t, I never spoke the word Witcher in your presence, but you were fascinated by the underappreciated heroes anyway.” Lila chuckles weakly, fondly, at memories of a little Jaskier demanding story after story.

“You’re the Silver Serpent, aren’t you?” Jaskier sounds as awed as he was the first time she told him one of her stories and Lila grins at him, nodding.

“It’s a little on the nose, although I suppose no more than White Wolf,” Jaskier huffs and smacks her affectionately, “But yes, I am,” She sighs, both amused and pained, “the caravans are real and the reason I was in Lettenhove actually. The caravans are Vipers, known for assassinations and reconnaissance in courts, although most don’t realize we exist and assume we’re from the School of the Viper if they even realize who we actually are.

“We existed well before mages were even a thought, and back then the trials were closer to a marriage ceremony or adoption than the bullshit that went on at the Keeps,” She snaps a branch and throws it on the fire, seething.

“Weren’t Witchers made by the mages?” Jaskier questions hesitantly, afraid to disturb the moment too much and end the tale.

“In a sense they were,” Lila concedes, “But we were the original models. Before the conjunction of the sphere, humans and elves were trickling into this world, before the veil formed at the actual conjunction, turning up alone or in small clusters in the woods. We found them, helped them, fell in love with them, let them become our family. Soon enough we learned they didn’t live like us, as long as us, and they would grow old and die before we even began to show the passage of time, or they’d fall victim to something that would barely affect us.”

“The trials were to let them stay with you for longer.” It’s whispered into the air as if saying it too loudly will cause the world to crumble around them. Jaskier’s breath gets stuck in his throat, thinking of Essi and Priscilla and every other human he’s ever loved. He thinks of Geralt too, even though it hurts, burns, and wonders just how many times he’s seen the fear of watching those around you grow old while you stand unchanging in his golden eyes. 

“I was the first,” Jaskier’s head snaps to Lila, eyes wide, “I’m only half-fae actually, my dad’s an elf, which is an entire story in it’s own right. Because of that, though, I volunteered to go through the trials first: fae enough to withstand the experimental nature of it all but still other enough to see if it would truly work. I knew it would, had already seen it happen, but that’s also another story entirely. After the trials were completed my hair fell out then turned silver and the world became too big, too much. I spent years deep in a cave system until I managed to acclimate to the world again.

“Once I came back we tweaked the process. The number of quills and pencils I snapped before I learned to control my strength is nigh obscene. The thing is, no one wanted to live in the caves for several decades, so I volunteered for those trials too.”

“No-”

“I’ve no idea how I managed to survive honestly. I’m old enough that even the mental capacity of the fae isn’t enough to remember everything but I remember the second trials. Nearly died actually, would have if they didn’t take me to the willows.” Lila curls into herself, holding herself as she tells the story.

“I’m guessing the tales of the willows hold more truth than I’ve been led to believe,” Jaskier breaths out, trying to absorb the tale as well as he can. 

“The willows are said to be our ancestors, that they twist and weep for us and wish only to help us, to ease our pain and suffering. Some say they see their parents when healed by the willows, whether from the trials or some other circumstance, or sometimes friends and lovers lost to time. I met the gods,” Jaskier chokes out a startles snort, “They said I have more, so much more, in store for me and all touched my head. Or they seemed to, they weren’t really a shape then, just a presence. I saw white then woke covered in moss and surrounded by wildflowers. I couldn’t connect to the earth, couldn’t use nature magic in any capacity before that and I awoke in the first flowers of Dol Blathanna.”

“You created Dol Blathanna? You’ve got to be kidding me!” They both laugh at the storybook events of Lila’s life.

“Apparently I started Dol Blathanna and became a goddess in the same sitting.” Jaskier spits the water he just tried to drink straight into the fire. It sputters and spits, much like Jaskier, before settling.

“I had spent a week at the willows and I had no heartbeat for about six out of seven of those days. When I sat up on the seventh night the elders were there about to start the burial rites and immediately bowed and started calling me Mother Gaia. I thought I was hallucinating,” She chuckles at Jaskier’s stunned expression then hugs her knees tighter to her chest. 

“After that others were willing to accept the trials if they were given the invitation. It seems my little trance allowed me to perfectly administer the trial of the Willows, or the Grasses I guess is what it’s called now. I could smell what they needed and how much, the order it needed to be administered in. I can smell a Witcher and pick apart the exact formula used and what should have been done for their specific makeup within ten minutes of meeting them. There were a few others who completed the trials and were able to smell it like I could, although it had to be taught to them where it’s instinctual to me. I took them as apprentices and once they had mastered it as I had, the caravans were created.” Lila quiets, lost in the memories, and lets the hand Jaskier rubs along her shoulders keep her grounded in the flood.

“This is the first time I’ve told this story I think,” She whispers, nearly drowned out by the crackling of burning wood.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, you don’t owe me anything, but,” He leans down to catch Lila’s eye, “I’m here to listen for as long as you’d like.” Lila gives him a wobbly smile then leans heavily against his side, bracing herself then continuing.

“We split into seven caravans and traveled to different corners of the continent to spread the Trials. I was the head of mine as well as the Trialmaster. Each caravan had their own name, their own style of living. Some chose to live simply as peacekeepers and protectors, others took more entertaining forms, like a circus troupe. Mine was the Twin Snakes, the largest and the only original caravan still functioning, most people assume we’re mercenaries of some sort now.”

“From the sounds of it, they probably aren’t that far off,” Jaskier snorts, pleased when it gets Lila to smile a little.

“No, they aren’t, really,” She shakes her head then continues on, “The number of caravans changed as we gained and lost Trialmasters and over the years they fell to sieges just as the keeps did. I’m the last Trialmaster left.” Jaskier holds her a little bit closer and she tucks herself a little bit tighter as the grief and loss settle over her shoulders.

“The mages at the Order of Witchers took what had become sacred to us and bastardized it to try and weaponize it. That’s when the Vipers became known as assassins and murderers. Our revenge was seen as assassination contracts while all we wanted was to protect ourselves and our way of life. We really have little to do with the actual Schools of Viper other than they took inspiration from us and allow us to winter at their keep if we wish. We granted them safe passage from caravan to caravan and taught them of our ways then grieved as they too tore our way of life down into a scrap of what it should be.” Jaskier growls at the betrayal; Lila squeezes his knee in appreciation.

“We were never well known on the continent, mainly keeping to ourselves, but after that, we completely faded from history with a little work. The caravans still traveled and met over the seasons but most of us adopted glamours and lives simply as healers or entertainment troupes or the like. We became teachers and bards, traveled with an apothecary set up in the back of a wagon. The traditions stayed as well as they could, we tried our best to hold on to our culture. Twin Snakes is the only one that still trains Witchers in any capacity though, the rest rely on the Witchers still alive and the protection of hiding in plain sight. We—the Twin Snakes, that is—send scouts out to courts and towns to protect the rest of our people the best we can but there’s still only so much we can do.”

“That’s why you were at the fight ring, because you went looking for these things. Is that why you were in Lettenhove? Monitoring the court?” Jaskier interrupts. His fingers move through her hair like she used to do to him after nightmares when she sighs heavily, the years she’s lived evident in the weight of her breath.

“Yes it was, I was supposed to leave the day your mother told me she was carrying you. She asked me to stay, to help care for you, and I couldn’t leave. It’s like we both knew what your father would turn into, and I couldn’t leave then, even though I knew I would have to eventually, likely at an even worse time. That night, in all reality, is what led to the attacks but I will never regret getting to be your Lilypad.” They both chuckle wetly at the nickname. Jaskier conjures a little lilypad and water lily to tuck behind Lila’s ear and wipes the tears from his cheeks once it’s settled in her hair. She touches it gently, reverently, and whispers a thank you. They stay there, curled around each other, and watch the fire crackle. Just as Jaskier accepts that that’s the end of the story for the night, Lila breaks the vigil.

“I was supposed to go back to the caravan the night your mother asked me to stay. I wasn’t there, with the caravan, to be captured, wasn’t there to find the ransom notes. The death was a message to me, a message to return, and a message of what I would find whether I heeded the warnings or not. I knew I had to go.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper, “I cleaned up the mess I had let fester, spent decades doing it, and I couldn’t stay, not after the destruction I had caused. They all would have been more than happy for me to stay, they wanted me to stay, but I couldn’t face it. So, I left.

“I tried out the whole ‘Witcher walk the Path alone’ mess for as long as I could stand it—in all honesty, it wasn’t that long. I ended up at Oxenfurt, I believe you know the gist of the rest of the story.”

“Indeed I do,” Jaskier sighs out and looks down in contemplation as silence settles over them again, “Let’s go to Twin Snakes.”

“What?” Lila jerks back to look at Jaskier, to see if he’s being serious.

“We both don’t have anywhere to be or anywhere else to go, so let’s go to your caravan, back to your family.” His eyes are bright and he smells of hope. After a moment Lila nods, a hesitant little thing, and drops her head down on his shoulder with a smile scared to be seen.

“Okay,” She whispers, hope in her voice, and Jaskier whoops at the stars, nearly howling, and soon enough the two of them are shouting at the sky, shoulders lighter than they’ve been for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you that there's a lot of dialogue and I wasn't kidding.  
> So. Much. Freaking. Dialogue.
> 
> But I hope you enjoyed it! I'll try to be back before it's been a month and a half but between Christmas, exams, and whatever the hell is happening to my second semester I promise nothing.


	10. Not actually a chapter, sorry!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A splurb of what I'm doing because it's probably gonna be a bit before this gets properly updated

Hi

This is the author, not an actual update because I underestimated some things.

Basically, I went through and broke my outline down further and planned it out (hopefully) chapter to chapter. You might have noticed that the chapter count is now at 40 and I'm relatively sure it should be close to that but also a little in shock because when I started writing this I was thinking it would be like 12 chapters. And this is just part one, the scene I wanted to start with when I first starting brainstorming is now the very last scene in this piece. I'm going to be writing for a while.

On that, the expansion of the outline means that I can't do the 80's movie transformation montage and now there's _so many ocs_ because I took like three pieces of canon and threw the rest away so I want to take the time to work on them properly instead of just tossing them out and hoping for the best. Between life and working on the ocs, it's going to be a while until I write the next chapter.

 _However,_ I'm writing drabbles for each oc to get a feel for how to write them and all that jazz, so if there's interest (or if I just feel like it tbh) I'll post them in another work in this series for y'all. There'd probably be other oneshots thrown in there too as I figure out their dynamics. I don't know when I'd start uploading those or how regular they would be, but they'd be there for y'all to read if you wanted!

Anyway, thank you for sticking around and reading even though I don't get anywhere near as much time as I would like to write and edit! I'll hopefully see you guys soon!

(Once the next chapter is updated, I'll take this down so it's not just thrown in the middle of the work!)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking this out and reading!


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